Since they first came to public consciousness with the release of Turn on The Bright Lights, the go-to description of Interpol has been “New York band that sounds like Joy Division.” Only thing is, though, I’ve heard a fair few Joy Division songs, since I’ve only been an obsessive devotee for pushing 30 years, and, um, no. There are other bands that have made far, FAR bigger dents in Interpol’s sound than Joy Division, and the fact that that vacuous comparison has persisted for over a decade among people who I know for a fact have ears is utterly baffling to me. I get the feeling that notion grew virally from an early promotional news release—it’s not like entertainment writers don’t have a demonstrable history of lazily parroting press materials. The reality is, Interpol owes a much greater debt to The Wedding Present, and a colossally HUGE one to My Dad Is Dead. Just listen:
 

“Year Of Loss”
 

“Two Pills In The Water”
 
You can be forgiven for the audible “Who?” you unleashed at that name-check. Influential bands don’t get much more obscure than My Dad Is Dead. They were a he - the band’s lone constant member and sole songwriter was one Mark Edwards, variously based in Ohio and North Carolina, and the earliest releases were indeed the work of a one-man-band. He released albums on Homestead in the ‘80s, making him labelmates with Sonic Youth and Nick Cave, then moved to Scat, the label that brought Guided By Voices to the world’s attention, and then later still released with Emperor Jones, the Austin imprint that boasts the single coolest record label website ever, period. So it’s not like his stuff was impossible or even difficult to find in its day, Edwards just never really caught on big like his contemporaries. From his Trouser Press bio:

Actually the work of a person rather than a band, My Dad Is Dead’s voluminous output has plainly explored the troubled waters of the soul, both personal and philosophical. Under his open-to-misinterpretation nom de disc, Cleveland (later transplanted to North Carolina) singer-writer-one-man-band Mark Edwards makes music whose appeal lies largely in its matter-of-fact handling of trauma. Growing steadily in fluency and confidence, Edwards, who writes, plays and sings with instrumental and vocal help from a floating gene pool of Cleveland musicians (Prisonshake’s Chris Burgess has also produced the bulk of his recordings), makes records that are as comforting as they are harrowing.

My Dad Is Dead, most of whose songs were indeed inspired by the loss of Edwards’ father, is a compelling, hypnotic debut that ranges from thrashy aggression (“Black Cloud”) to supple melodicism (“Talk to the Weatherman”) to industrial gloom (“Say Goodbye”). The unifying thread is the downbeat lyrics; the sole weak link is Edwards’ flat singing, which improved on subsequent releases.

“Downbeat” really sums it up - as catchy as the tunes could often be, the lyrics were ALWAYS a bummer. A prime example is the gorgeous but heartbreaking “The Water’s Edge,” which chillingly describes the grief of a man left behind by a woman who drowned herself while he helplessly stood by. I’ve linked both the original and the absolutely stunning cover version by Tsunami.
 

 
Though Edwards’ heyday lasted from 1985 to 1997 give or take, he continued the project into the oughts and released albums on his own Unhinged label, only retiring the My Dad Is Dead moniker a couple of years ago, when he returned to Cleveland for a homecoming/farewell performance. He’s helming a new project called Secular Joy—absolutely worth checking out if any of the above music resonated with you. And if you’re keen to explore, there’s TONS of My Dad Is Dead material to be had free of charge. Through January 1, 2014, Edwards is giving away his 1995 album For Richer For Poorer—his least downbeat album—on his Bandcamp page on a name-your-price basis. He’s also offering a live recording from 1988, his opening set for a Throwing Muses show. And his first five albums and an odds-and-ends compilation have been available free of charge on his web site for about ever. If ’80s depresso-rock has ever been even slightly your thing, those early releases are seriously worth checking out.

My Dad Is Dead, For Richer For Poorer

My Dad Is Dead, Live in 1988

My Dad Is Dead, five full albums for free + rarities

As is sadly to be expected for a lesser-known band that lived the most vital years of its existence before broadband and high-res phone cameras achieved ubiquity, good live footage is hard to come by. Here’s some audience-cam footage of the excellent song “World On A String,” from 1991. Though the on-camera mic leaves a lot to be desired in terms of sound fidelity, this footage accurately captures the live feel of that era of the band.
 

The Beatles, 1972
 
Tadanori Yokoo was one of the dominant figures, if not the dominant figure, in Japanese design starting in the Sixties. Some people liken his work to Andy Warhol but I scarcely see that, unless you’re talking about general importance and influence, in which case I can’t judge. I think Richard got it right last year when he invoked Milton Glaser, Seymour Chwast, and Peter Max, particularly Max.

In addition to his (usually) symmetrical, DayGlo, ligne claire works, Yokoo also did a good number of rock-related graphics. The funny thing is that they’re in a completely different photocollage style—you can tell it might be by the same person but aside from that, they’re not too similar to stuff like this. I find all of these images delightful and fascinating. They’re trippy and detailed with a strong design sense, and the use of photos prevents them from flying off into the ether.

Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, 1972
 

Cat Stevens, 1972
 

Santana, 1974
 

Earth, Wind, & Fire, 1976
 

Tangerine Dream, 1976
 

The Beatles, Star Club, 1977
 

Earth, Wind, & Fire, 1993
 
Aa a bonus, here’s Tadanori’s cover for Miles Davis’ 1975 album Agharta.

 
Considering that this is the only Christmas song I can thing of that hopes you choke on your turkey, it’s probably better to post this one the day after Christmas….

In 1981, anarcho-punk heroes Crass had had about enough of the increasingly commercialized holiday season—not to mention the mass slaughter of turkeys each year—and decided to protest musically with a Casiotone medley of some of their best-loved numbers. The two-sided single, “Merry Crassmas,” was the result.

“Merry Crassmas” was credited to “Creative Recording and Sound Services.” On the picture sleeve, ringing Gee Vaucher’s distinctive art were these words:

COLD TURKEY ONE. VERY MERRY CRASSMAS. HERE’S AN AMAZING XMAS MEDLEY OF CRASS’S GREATEST HITS. SUPER FUN FOR ALL THE FAMILY. PLUS…SUPER FUN TIME COMPETITION THAT EVERYONE CAN JOIN IN. HERE’S WHAT YOU DO…IT’S EASY. JUST LIST, IN ORDER, THE TITLES OF THE EXCITING CRASS SONGS ON THIS RECORD. THE FIRST THREE CORRECT POSTCARDS TO BE RECEIVED WILL BE SENT THE FOLLOWING GREAT PRIZES…1ST PRIZE… BATHSALTS, 2ND PRIZE…ONE EXPLOITED SINGLE, 3RD PRIZE…TWO EXPLOITED SINGLES. HAVE FUN. SEND ENTRIES TO “CRASSMAS COMPETITION.” PO BOX 279. LONDON N22.

Please note that back in 1981, kids, “bath salts” actually meant bath salts like you would put in your bath—not a drug that will make you want to eat people’s faces off—a shitty prize, in other words. I like how third place gets two Exploited singles!

Side A:
Jingle Bells
Big A, Little A
Punk is Dead
Big Hands
Contaminational Power
I Ain’t Thick, It’s Just a Trick
Nagasaki Nightmare
While Shepherds Watched

Side B:
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Securicor
Darling
G’s Song
Banned from the Roxy
Tired
So what
Silent Night

One of only two Christmas records I own. True!
 

 
Back in 1998, when the U2/Negativland imbroglio was still fresh in memory and sampling in music was still a hotly debated matter, the Illegal Art label released Deconstructing Beck, a compilation of culture-jamming remix artists running Beck’s music through the wringer. The purpose was to call attention to a sticking point in the debate over sampling in music - while major artists like Beck, who had the corporate backing to pay for clearances, could release whole albums cobbled together almost entirely from scavenged material, that sort of remix culture was effectively outlawed for all but a rarefied few, and a non-wealthy independent artist who worked with similar methods but for the purposes of cultural commentary rather than mere entertainment could conceivably be screwed for life by one rapacious mega-label lawyer. And in an age when pop music is blared at us, whether we want to hear it or not, in public and open-to-the-public spaces like grocery stores and bus stops, how is such matter not fair fodder for the ministrations and jabs of artists seeking to comment on it? As Steven Shaviro wrote in a 1998 issue of ArtByte:

An anonymous group known as Illegal Art recently released its first commercial product: an underground CD called Deconstructing Beck. The album is a brilliant exercise in guerrilla art-making. Deconstructing Beck is built entirely out of samples taken, without authorization or payment, from music by the alternative-rock hero of the moment, Beck Hansen. The samples have been manipulated electronically in various ways. The resulting thirteen tracks, by a number of different pseudonymous artists, have a do-it-yourself feel. Most of them were made on Macintosh computers, with relatively inexpensive software. By the standards of the recording industry, this makes it low-tech. The CD’s sound varies from track to track, but overall it is far more abrasive than Beck’s original music. Some of the pieces work as witty commentaries on their source. Others change the music unrecognizably, breaking it into abstract formal patterns.

Such critique and analysis is the major point of Deconstructing Beck—though the critique is carried out by musical and commercial means, rather than discursive ones. The whole basis of the album is musical piracy: the deliberate appropriation of copyrighted material. There are good reasons for this. We live in a world of ubiquitous images and soundbytes. The electronic media are to us what ‘nature’ was to earlier eras. It’s the background against which we live our lives, and from which we derive our references and meanings. In such a framework, the distinction between high art and popular culture becomes ever less viable. For any cultural work must come to terms, one way or another, with the mediascape that’s always Out There. That’s why appropriation is the major aesthetic form of the postmodern digital age. It’s everywhere, from rap records, to film and video, to installation art. Everyone now understands what Andy Warhol was perhaps the first to enunciate: that our lives have to do, not so much with fruits and flowers, or rivers and mountains, as with cans of Campbell soup, and images of Marilyn and Elvis.

What’s too often left out of this scenario, however, is the question of ownership. Who owns the images and sounds that are all around us? What does it mean to own one, anyway? What are the implications of reproducing one? For that matter, how do we even delineate a single image or sound? Where does one end, and the next begin? Given a pre-existing visual or sonic source, how radically must it be changed before it is turned into something new? Should the notion of authorship apply to images and sounds themselves? Or only to the uses to which those images and sounds are put? Or should it not be utilized at all? These questions are both theoretical and pragmatic. They touch on legal and economic issues, as much as on aesthetic and conceptual ones. Advances in digital technology have only made them even more urgent than they were in Warhol’s time. Internet utopians like John Perry Barlow argue that the current ease of digital copying and dissemination makes the very idea of copyright obsolete. But the property owners will not give up control without a fight. Big corporations are becoming increasingly vigilant about alleged electronic piracy. New legislation is being proposed to tighten the definition of intellectual property. And new technologies are being developed to make more difficult the free reproduction of sounds and images.

It was in this context that Deconstructing Beck was set loose into the world. As Geffen’s attempts to suppress the release ultimately came to nothing, it’s still available via Negativland’s Seeland Records label. The compilation features a mixed bag of sound collage and remix artists, from obscure practitioners to the more prominent (in that scene) likes of Steev Hise and The Evolution Control Committee. The ECC’s contribution, predictably enough if you know that entity’s work, is one of the most insane pieces on the album:
 

 
Steev Hise’s offering, “Stuck Together, Falling Apart,” is a disorienting patchwork of some of Beck’s most well-worn tropes, often sounding like the product of a restless and angry child who can’t decide which radio station he wants to listen to:
 

 
Some pieces preserve Beck’s groove-orientation, like Hromlegn Kainn’s satisfying “Doublefolded,” and some work to frustrate those kinds of expectations, like Jane Dowe’s “Bust A Move.”
 

 
Other highly worthy contributions include the WONDERFUL noisescapes “Fat Zone,” by J. Teller, and “Killer Control Enters Black Hole” by Huk Don Phun, which very nearly render their source material entirely unrecongizable.
 

 
It’s easy to believe that had Beck not been the hugely famous rock-star target of that compilation, he’d be the kind of artist who’d have participated in it - which may very well have been partly why he was chosen. He has, in recent years, been orchestrating deconstructions of his own, with his “Record Club” series of videos, wherein he collaborates with other notable musicians to re-imagine and re-record entire albums, each in a single day. Here he is with St. Vincent and Liars’ Angus Andrew, among others, remaking Kick by INXS!
 

 
In 1975, Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s Greg Lake and ELP/King Crimson lyricist, Pete Sinfield wrote a darkly pretty number about the over-commercialization of Christmas. At least that’s what Greg Lake said the song was about. Sinfield, who actually wrote the lyrics, begged to differ and has stated the song is about the loss of childish beliefs.

It could go either way: “I Believe in Father Christmas” is most certainly unique, a Christmas song that could be taken to heart equally by a Christian or an atheist. Most often, the song was interpreted as being anti-religious: “And they sold me a fairy story until I believed in the Israelite.” The vocal performance straddles the line, at turns wistful and sincere or just blunt, foiling easy interpretation.

Greg Lake has always maintained surprise that it’s turned out to be considered somewhat of a Christmas season classic due to the dark tone of the song (It wishes listeners a “hopeful Christmas” and a “brave” new year). The original video, with its “heavy, man” scenes of American bombers in Vietnam (not included in this edit), was shot in the Sinai Desert and was apparently controversial in some quarters when it was shown on television. ELP re-recorded the song in 1977 on their Works, Volume 2 album and have returned to it again over the years.

“I Believe in Father Christmas” did not make it to #1 on the British chart, a spot Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” kept it from, but the song has been covered by numerous performers, including U2 and Sarah Brightman. It was even (slightly) parodied by “Weird Al” Yankovic in “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” The orchestral motif is from Prokofiev’s “Lieutenant Kije Suite.”
 

 
The Monkees singing a beautiful a capella version of the traditional Spanish Christmas carol, “Ríu, Chíu,” from their TV Christmas special in 1967.

And no, that’s not a joint that Peter Tork is holding, it’s a stick of incense.
 

 
What could have been more square in the late 1960s than a family band with MOM in it? The Cowsills became a badge for the co-optation of counterculture when they sang the theme song for Hair, and their rep for milky white safeness was cemented forever when The Partridge Family pilfered their schtick pretty much wholesale. But with a few decades elapsed between then and now, I think it’s no longer a betrayal of The Revolution to be OK with them, because ultimately, they just wanted to sing, and bland content or not, they sang very, very well. And while they do shoulder some blame for David Cassidy’s career, at least the Osmonds aren’t their fault.
 

WHAT THE—okay, maybe they weren’t entirely safe.

Here’s a seasonally timely clip of the Cowsills on The Johnny Cash Show, guesting with Cash on the gospel number “Children, Go Where I Send Thee.” Not only do they admirably hold their own backing up Cash’s rich basso voice, pay attention around 2:09, at which ten-year-old Susan Cowsill peers confidently into the camera and nails a solo verse. This, again, is a ten-year-old kid sitting next to Johnny By God CASH and singing with laudable poise. That talented little kid went on to gain a measure of hip cred playing in Dwight Twilley’s band in the ‘80s, and in The Continental Drifters with The dBs’ Peter Holsapple (her husband for a time). She continues to pursue an active solo career.
 

 
No, seriously, Can recorded “Silent Night”! Not even they were immune to the siren call of a calculated yuletide ploy, I suppose, but “Silent Night”?

Just now I played this for my wife and asked “Who do you think this is?”. Without missing a beat, she said flatly “Can.”

I’m a very lucky man!
 

 
The tear-jerker of a letter below was written by a World War II veteran named Brian Keith to another soldier, known only as “Dave.” The two began their romance in 1943 while stationed in North Africa together. This letter commemorated that anniversary.

It was first re-printed for wide distribution in 1961, by pioneering gay publication, ONE Magazine. But this love letter could very well have never seen the light of day. ONE put out their first issue in 1953, and brazenly sold on the streets of Los Angeles. In 1954 the magazine faced obscenity charges from the U.S. Post Office Department. They sued, and in 1958, won in a Supreme Court trial that set new legal precedent for First Amendment protections. ONE Magazine ran until 1967.

Dear Dave,

This is in memory of an anniversary — the anniversary of October 27th, 1943, when I first heard you singing in North Africa. That song brings memories of the happiest times I’ve ever known. Memories of a GI show troop — curtains made from barrage balloons — spotlights made from cocoa cans — rehearsals that ran late into the evenings — and a handsome boy with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at a theatre in Canastel — perhaps a bit too much muscatel, and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately Municipal Opera House in Oran — a misunderstanding — an understanding in the wings just before opening chorus.

Drinks at “Coq d’or” — dinner at the “Auberge” — a ring and promise given. The show 1st Armoured — muscatel, scotch, wine — someone who had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible — a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean, and a picnic of “rations” and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough to know the score, but not smart enough to realize that we wanted to be alone. A screwball piano player — competition — miserable days and lonely nights. The cold, windy night we crawled through the window of a GI theatre and fell asleep on a cot backstage, locked in each other’s arms — the shock when we awoke and realized that miraculously we hadn’t been discovered. A fast drive to a cliff above the sea — pictures taken, and a stop amid the purple grapes and cool leaves of a vineyard.

The happiness when told we were going home — and the misery when we learned that we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night, and the tears that would not be stopped as I stood atop the sea-wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon.

We vowed we’d be together again “back home,” but fate knew better — you never got there. And so, Dave, I hope that wherever you are these memories are as precious to you as they are to me.

Goodnight, sleep well my love.

Brian Keith

Goldfrapp’s moving “Clay” from their latest long-player, Tales of Us, is based on the letter. Here they are on Later… with Jools Holland performing the number:
 

 
Via Letters of Note

 
Magik Markers are the just the right combination of noise, catchy tunes and crazed intensity. Their ferocious drones stretch out into incendiary live workouts (as you can see in one of the clips below) and they’re got a devoted fanbase. Since the group started, drummer Pete Nolan (via his Arbitrary Signs label) has produced handmade limited editions on CD-R and tapes with original artwork. After a four-year gap between records, Magik Markers (Nolan, Elisa Ambrogio and bassist John Shaw, replacing Leah Quimby) have returned with a solid new album, Surrender to the Fantasy (Drag City) that is perhaps more focused (not that this is necessarily a good thing or a bad thing) than previous work. I caught up via email with drummer Pete Nolan about the recent release.

Richard Metzger: Magik Markers were really prolific for many years, and the frequency of your output, plus the bespoke nature of your limited releases, imply an especially intimate relationship with fans. Then… nothing. Why the extended break or does it just appear that way?

Pete Nolan: We were still been putting out cassettes and live CD-Rs. Isolated From Exterior Time, 2010, had a lot of the tunes from Surrender on it. Also Mother was Magik documented at live gig at The Stone. We also put out a cassette last year with a bunch of 4-track recordings on it. So we’ve been doing stuff all along it’s just been more refined and limited.

Richard Metzger: How did you approach “locking in” to the Magik Markers head-space again?

Pete Nolan: We weren’t apart at all. We’ve done several tours over the last four years with bands like Black Bananas and Dirty 3 as well as playing lots of gigs around the east coast. So it’s not like we haven’t been playing or something.  Most of the material on Surrender was recorded over the past four years. We didn’t take a break or anything.  We’ve just been constantly recording. Surrender took shape as a result of honing through years worth of taped archives.  We certainly have enough material to put out another LP if we feel like it. We’ve just been doing things on our own schedule.
 

“Bonfire”
 
Richard Metzger: What’s the primary difference—as you perceive it as creators—between what you put on recordings versus the way you approach your live performances?

Pete Nolan: For our records we try to pick pieces that work well together as a whole and then just try to make them sound as good as possible. Most of these songs are first or second takes and we really let the loose ends stay loose on Surrender. For our past couple of proper LP s we sort of clipped things short and edited them up for the sake of making things more concise, but I think that’s really against the spirit of how we operate as a band. Our songs are weird little universes of their own that we inhabit. It would be unfair to cut them short.  The weirdness comes out when we let them breath for a bit and do their thing.
 

A live “Bonfire” that threatens to burn out of control, March 1 2012 at Bard College.
 
We recorded a lot of songs for this record that would be good and easy to do live. I think we’re pretty heavy as a live unit these days. We hit hard and swing hard and the songs are super loud when they need to be and quiet when they need to be. We also make sure that huge chunks of our live set are dominated by improvisation.  We thrive on unexpected things and it’s in these moments of improvisation where we can really tune into the energy of a room. I feel like we owe it to people who come see us to hit it hard and give a good sampling of what we re all about. I think our sets are pretty heavily energized these days.
 

A more sedate side of the group with “Mirrorless”